Capulet
by handschuhmaus
Summary: Her father named her after the infamous tragic lover, and her husband refused to use the name. But a man she should hate comes along and calls her by it. Songfic, non-chron, AUish, OCs.


_**Actually, these characters, I do own, because I made them up. Some analog of Merlela exists in canon, but I don't believe she's ever described. I don't own the song or the world of HP, though. I had the idea a while back that something should be done with the three covers on Sawdust, and an idea finally popped into my head. I'm referencing the Killers cover of the Dire Straits song.**_

_**It's a series of vignettes, in non-chronological order, posed to the song. (Upon reflection, it reminds me a little of the part of Thief of Time where Nanny Ogg is trying to deliver Jeremy and Lobsang. If that means anything to you. Or possibly a conversation with Mrs. Cake) It may well not make much sense. Perhaps you had best treat it as merely a tale of a pureblood falling for a muggleborn, counter all her family's beliefs.**_

_A lovestruck Romeo sings the streets a serenade_

_Laying everybody low with a love song that he made_

_Finds a streetlight, steps out of the shade_

The audacity—if she wasn't mistaken, it was almost like something straight from the Black family anthology…no, she _was_ going mad, and she was confusing "Toujours pur" with some common saying about audacity.

"Exactly like one, working in the soil and mud like that," she growled at the mud-spattered man.

"That-you never pay any attention to me, do you?"

…

_Says something like, "You and me babe, how about it?"_

"_You_ are infernally clumsy. Might I remind you that my feet are not stepping stones?"

And he quirked the corner of his mouth, lifted and twirled her in the air, her skirts aflutter.

As a matter of course, she glared at him. He shrugged and captured her mouth once more with his, and she was glad to acquiesce again, despite her sharp demeanor, to a simple act of love that went against all her family's ideals.

_Juliet says, "Hey it's Romeo, you nearly gave me a heart attack"_

There simply was no reason for the man to court her!

She did not need a husband, much less a mudblooded one. Marvolo had been pureblooded. Marvolo had been less than worthless.

As it was, purloining biscuits and scraps of pastry from her baking was hardly a way to garner favor.

He had an infectious smile, at least, and he was far more industrious than that lazybones of a pureblood, but did those features an ideal husband make?

The answer is a resounding "NO!"

…a _husband?_

_He's underneath the window, she's singing, "Hey la, my boyfriend's back._

_You shouldn't come around here singing up at people like that._

She took to mocking him. In an altogether different than accustomed way.

To her chagrin, Walt knew it for exactly what it was.

She had never been serenaded prior to that crazy mudblood's entrance into her daily life.

Might as well enjoy it—though she would give him a proper scolding on principal for wasting time, and furthermore, he wasn't playing particularly tunefully. Of course, she wasn't musically inclined, either, but having a mother who played violin much like Sherlock Holmes would do that to a person.

_Anyway, what you gonna do about it?"_

"I am going to clean up the floor."

"That's no answer," the lover protested, on his knees in front of her, proffering a slender silver band. He was awash in fruit salad and pastries, and there was broken china scattered around his knees.

On balance, the failure of the dining table leaf had ruined the effect of the proposal. But…even covered in breakfast, he was a considerably more attractive sight than Marvolo had ever been.

_Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start_

Fetching Thrascia was hardly a task she enjoyed. The company her sister kept, the circles _that_ family moved in… well, there were many choice adjectives she might apply, "Mudblooded" the most obvious.

He was either the worst of the group or the best, depending upon your perspective. Meidathea and Mortola disagreed on that, as did Mortola's daughters, but at least theirs was an upstanding debate over whether blood traitors or Mudbloods were worse, whilst Thrascia actually believed that Mudbloods and purebloods were equal! Merlela would side with her mother and declare him the best at this interim, but the best of a terrible group was hardly good.

"Didn't you get it?" he asked, laughing. They were all laughing at some joke he made.

"Don't speak to me, Mudblood."

_And I bet, that you exploded in my heart_

Something changed in his eyes the _second_ time he actually met her.

The name was familiar, and if she thought about it long enough, she could remember the company Alex had kept, not that she had ever liked Alex—but then again, she would not speak ill of the dead—and he at least seemed to have aged decently.

What bothered her most was that she didn't recognize it. It seemed neither malicious nor benevolent, and yet he paid her more attention after that, crazy as that was.

He was a gardener.

Then again, she was a cook.

_And I forget, I forget, the movie song_

It was almost an inconceivable activity, and so she was both consoled and distressed by the thought that her sister had probably done such a thing multiple times.

Any one of their family that you asked would deem the idea of a Gaunt attending a Muggle moving picture unfathomable. Yet Walt was taking the little girl who was staying with her grandmother down the lane to…an old Christmas movie.

It was American, and Muggle, and more than a bit old, and in black and white, and all about names that Merlela Juliet Gaunt knew nothing about.

But there was something in that story. There was something about believing, and something about goodwill to men.

If only she could remember the way to do that…

_When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?_

"My daughter is dead." The response was bitter and astringent.

"Oh," remarked Morag, cluelessly. "Will you be taking time off to go to the funeral, then?"

"No," she could steel herself. She'd had lessons from her childhood on from a veritable rapier.

"Your _daughter_?" Walt gave her a critical look—he had no business commenting—but she couldn't tell whether it was a question, a command, or censure.

And steel was not the way to treat fragile Morag, any more than she'd butter toast with a steak knife. So she made a passable attempt at politeness. "There isn't to be any funeral. She died on the streets of London, estranged from the rest of the family, and they would actively prohibit any memorial."

Her employer burst into hysterical tears and Merlela was quick to take up the mantle of pacific caregiver. The gardener left the room, his head hanging.

_Come up on different streets, they both were streets of shame_

_Both dirty, both mean, yes and the dream was just the same_

He had both son and daughter.

It was of little matter to him, and perhaps he was downright mad. Perhaps.

He talked to snakes in and out of his dreams—she did, too, having the gift, but her commentary was only the off-hand comments, the little news of the outside world a reptile could bring, sometimes a sort of babying tone that she kept up because Marvolo was so contrary and she would not snap to her children the way she felt like doing to him.

He, on the other hand, talked of wizards ruling the earth, and dragons walking again (they were hardly _extinct_—what an absurd notion!).

Still, they would have children that would carry on the Gaunt name—

And there is your quandary, because there weren't any suitable spouses for Morfin or Merope!

Salazar, they were growing up in a hovel!

_Then I dreamed your dream for you, and now your dream is real_

_How can you look at me as if I was just another one of your deals?_

It was only in retrospect that Merlela finally got the inkling that her mother had not perhaps been as totally in opposition to Muggles as the family was supposed to be.

As a matter of fact, she didn't doubt that Mortola actually disliked arranged marriages. Yet she'd made them for both of her daughters, and she'd made them, not Alec.

And on principal, Merlela ought to be mad. She wasn't. She was perpetually sour, but she wasn't mad, as such, at the present the gardener had made—her favorite flowers (irises), the herbs and vegetables she had needed, some book.

After all, she'd half wanted… as most any girl did, to be courted.

The only indubitable statement she could make on the matter was that Marvolo had known nothing of such things.

_You can fall for chains of silver, you can fall for chains of gold_

She had been charmed, she supposed, the same way her aunt had. A pity.

Snakes do not treat you well, she would warn her daughter. Because they looked magnanimous. They looked like proud husbands for Slytherin wives.

Snakes can look pretty.

So can men.

It doesn't mean they don't have fangs.

It doesn't mean they won't strangle you at the first opportunity.

But one mistake she would not make, that Meidathea had, was to fall in _love_ with a Gryffindor. Lions have claws _and _teeth. They don't hesitate to mangle or mock their prey.

_You can fall for pretty strangers and the promises they hold_

Merope should know better than to trust a Riddle. She should know better than to trust a Muggle.

And yet, of course, she would fall for a handsome face, and Merlela was impotent to do one thing about it.

The news utterly dismayed the mother.

Yet what was there in it but to go on? She had gone on before. She would do so again.

_You promised me everything, you promised me thick and thin, yeah_

_Now you just say "Oh Romeo yeah, you know I used to have a scene with him"_

"Accursed Christmas decorations!" she muttered.

"Cookie!" accused Morag, and Merlela consented to peck the Mudblooded gardener on the cheek, considering that childish Morag _would_ insist upon not only hanging mistletoe, but enchanting it.

_I said I love you like the stars above, I'll love you 'til I die_

_There's a place for us, you know the movie song_

_When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?_

"Star light, star bright; first star I see tonight—"

"You know you really can't wish on stars, Walt," she frowned at her husband as they walked alone along the shore. And then she was forced to turn away else she would have broken out in laughter.

"I thought you were going to ask what I wished for," he protested petulantly, wrapping his arms around her.

"What did you wish for?"

"You'll see."

"_Really_."

"Yes, Jules, you'll see."

_I can't do the talk like the talk on the TV_

_And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be_

"Might I point out that you might be tone-deaf?"

"Is that bad?" Phineas asked, absentmindedly pouring cream over his toast rather than into his coffee as he read the newspaper.

"It means he can't sing," explained Merlela, gently redirecting the jug and wiping up the rivulet of cream that was seeping onto the table.

"Did I just…pour cream on my toast?" asked her employer, looking aghast at his erroneous breakfast.

"Yes…" she replied, doing her best not to laugh, as she noticed that something had gone wrong with the man's shaving charm.

"Sir?" asked Walt, who was rather foolishly swinging the cinnamon shaker about.

"Yes? Were you wanting a day off?"

Morag, on cue, let out an explosive sneeze and looked up repentantly at Merlela.

"No…" replied the gardener, abashedly putting down the cinnamon shaker as he noticed the fine brown coating he had deposited and the damage wrought by his mistress's sneeze. "I was going to tell you that…"

"You've made a mistake with your shaving charm. You'd better look in the mirror before you go out." Merlela said brusquely, as she vanished the errant cinnamon.

"Thank you, dearie." Walt bowed, and she couldn't tell quite whether the name was a mocking sort or meant to show endearment and annoy her.

_I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you_

_I can't do anything 'cept be in love with you_

And this was terribly embarrassing! For exactly what reason would she want that Mudblooded gardener to witness her one instance of clumsiness and foolishness…

"Here you go." He handed her the pots she had dropped, and deposited the root vegetables back in the sink where she was presently in the middle of washing dishes.

"Ignorant, Mudblooded…" she muttered, and glared at him.

He looked back at the sink and had the grace to look abashed.

The glass slipped through her hand, and he moved as if to grab the broom.

She glared at him, and aimed a quick _reparo_ at the broken glass.

"How filthy! How Muggle!" she muttered all the while.

He flushed and stepped back out of her kitchen.

_And all I do is miss you, and the way we used to be_

_And all I do is keep the beat, and the band company_

"Look. I admit it. I have been out of line. I have been acting entirely too forwards toward you, and, though it may be slightly inappropriate, I offer my condolences as I look for another form of employment."

"Don't be a fool." She retorted, as he made an old-fashioned bow.

"How so? I apologize for the offence, m'lady."

"I'm not your lady," she corrected, more for the sake of the banter they had kept up. It felt good to be courted.

He sighed.

"Who else would I pester, and how else is Phineus going to keep his In-tray straight from the Floo directory? And, might I ask, _who_ is going to help Morag down the stairs every morning?" she countered.

"But, Mortola, I…"

"You're a pest, yes. But I probably deserve it. Get yourself back in there and fetch the owl out of the attic—it doesn't belong up there."

"I love you," he said, entirely unsolicited, and he meant it, too, from the bright smile that lit up his face as he headed back up the stairs.

_And all I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme_

_Juliet I'd do the stars with you any time_

"I realize, dear, that I don't have any musical talent, and therefore—"

She had been crying and she broke into a fresh ecstasy of tears and laughter at this pronouncement.

What _was _there left of the Gaunts anyway, to be proud of, and why shouldn't she be glad of his solicitousness?

"Are you all right?" he asked, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. He had that mock-serious look on his face, and she almost laughed, and she brushed his hand away.

"Foolish mudblooded gardener." She pronounced him, grinning foolishly all the while.

"Cruel pureblooded nag," he addressed her in return, as if it were the grandest title in the world, and she shooed him away, but there was no malice in it.

_You used to cry_

_I said I love you like the stars above, I'll love you 'til I die_

Hardly sentimental. That was her. She couldn't afford to be. She had lost countless babies of Marvolo's in the worst days of their marriage, and there was no room for crybabies in the Gaunt family.

Still… Merope never got this honor. She'd never had it either, in the first place.

Well, perhaps, just maybe, this would be different. Another chance, another start, where the flowers had been watered with tears, the sourdough seeded with bitter yeasts, but with a promise that something could blossom. Maybe she'd delight in the sun again.

Tomorrow _was_ another day.

_And there's a place for us, you know the movie song_

_When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?_

"Exactly like one, working in the soil and mud like that," she growled at the mud-spattered man, who proffered a bouquet of roses

"That-you never pay any attention to me, do you?"

"What attention is warranted by a _wizard_ who is employed as a gardener!"

"You're on the payroll, too, Cookie."

She bit her lip to stop the retort from coming.

He grinned up at her, an infuriating grin.

But she took the flowers, turned on her heel, and shut the door in her suitor's face

_And a lovestruck Romeo sings the streets a serenade_

_Laying everybody low with a love song that he made_

_He finds a convenient streetlight, he steps out of the shade_

_Says something like, "You and me babe, how about it?"_


End file.
